I Saw You Today
by An0nym0uSlyY0urS
Summary: Sherlock is gone for three years, leaving a damaged and crazed John. John is convinced that when he see's Sherlock again it's just a figment of his imagination, until Lestrade see's him too. M For future fluff.
1. I Saw You Today

Sherlock looked at John from the other side of the grave yard, unsure of whether he should go and tell him that he's okay, he's alive. Anything to take that horrible, awful, look of sadness on his face. Surely he would understand…right? For once Sherlock wasn't quite sure what would happen, he couldn't quite deduce what John's reaction might be. Instead of confronting him, Sherlock walked off to where he would remain in isolation for three years.

1 year later

"Sherlock!" John yells to no one as he shoots up out of his fretful slumber. His eyes scan the room for any sign that maybe it was all just a dream, or even the sitance sound of a violin to calm his fears, but nothing came. Just silence filled his ears. John's heart wretched at the emptiness of the flat, and hiself. Before he could continue to think, his hand shot to his beside table grabbing one of the small pills that contained a heavy dose of tranquilizer to calm his mind. And he sank back into his emotionless, dreamless, void again.

2 Years later

John walked down the street the opposite direction of Baker Street. Sherlock had asked him to get some more milk. Another expirement had emptied the previous jug. John's mind was still reeling. Earlier when he left, he had informed Mrs. Hudson that he was going to get milk for Sherlock. She just gave him the saddest look and went into a room sobbing. John figured it must be a woman thing, seeing as how he didn't understand them much. Sherlock had come back to him a few months ago. Sherlock didn't do anymore cases now, but John was okay with that. Just as long as he had Sherlock back.

One Month Later

John sat down in the living room of the empty flat. His moment of realization came with agonizing pain. He had tried to hug Sherlock, and he vaporized. John now knew that his imagination had been playing tricks on him yet again.

1 Year Later

John finished packing up the first box of Sherlock's things in the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had opposed the idea, thinking that John couldn't handle it. Surprisingly he had handled it much better than anyone though he would. Just to be safe Mrs. Hudson had Lestrade come over to supervise. Just to be sure that John wouldn't attempt to jump out of the window.

"You know, you don't have to do this yet John, I could even have Donovan or Anderson do it." Lestrade looked a him from the door way, sipping his tea. John just looked up at him with tired eyes. Eyes that had been tired ever since the day that Sherlock fell. Eyes that couldn't sustain any life for even just a moment.

John shakes his head. "No, it had to be done. His things can't stay where he isn't. It's wrong." He says picking up the box sitting it on the bed. Walking over to Lestrade he smiles. "He wouldn't want me to mourn too long ya know?" John said.

Two days later

John was looking at Lestrade who was finishing up the fourth box. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone come into the flat, assuming it might be Anderson he didn't even turn his head from where he sat.

"John?" A deep familiar voice called from the doorway. John looked this time. Sherlock stood there, dark and beautiful as ever. "I thought I was done imagining since I saw you earlier" John says quietly. Knowing it's only another figment of his imagination.

Lestrade comes into the living room and stops dead in his tracks gaping at what should be a space of air, yet it's actually occupied. "S-sherlock?" His mouth stays agape and his eyes wide. John just looks at Lestrade his heart pounding.

"You can see him too?"


	2. Drugged John, and A New Case

John opened his eyes to a brightly lit room and a comfortable bed. Had he dreamed Sherlock coming back? Had Lestrade really been over at the flat yesterday? Questions swirled in the man's mind. Sitting up in the bed he looked around. This wasn't his room. It was Sherlock's. John didn't remember falling asleep here. Lestrade…Lestrade had packed boxes yesterday. John's eyes went straight to the corner of the room, where the boxes lay packed and taped shut.

"That's one thing I know happened…but..Sherlock…" John said to himself as he crawled out of bed. His head was spinning, forcing him to sit back down. "John is that you I hear?" Mrs. Hudson's voice called from the living room. She rushed in and looked at him. "I see it hasn't worn off yet. Would you like some tea?" She asked in her motherly tone as usual.

"Uh, yeah. Uhm…Mrs. Hudson is there anyone else here in the flat?" John asked. Mrs. Hudson looked at him oddly. He braced himself for the blinding pain of realization that it was all a dream. "Of course. Sherlock's back, remember? Gave me quite a fright last night." She laughed and went to the kitchen. John's heart nearly leaped from his chest. It hadn't been a dream. He was really back.

John managed to get out of the bed without falling this time, and made his way to the sitting room. He stopped just before he made it there. His eyes fell on Sherlock's form, sitting at the table like he used to every morning three years before. "S-Sher.." His voice failed him. Sherlock looked up from his paper and smiled. "John, you're awake. Sorry I had to drug you. After I came in and Lestrade saw me, you went into a bit of a rage." John just stared at the man with unblinking eyes.

"You…you're alive." John said and tears threatened to spill over. He began to feel weak in the knees and he looked around the flat. Things were becoming distorted in his vision. Sherlock stood quickly and caught John just before he fell to the ground. "Mrs. Hudson I'm going to put him back in bed. The drugs are still in his system. Keep an eye out, I have to get something done." Sherlock stated and placed him back in the bed covering him up as you would a child. Before leaving the room he took a moment to look at John, the broken, shattered John. The John that used to be so lively before. The one who had been so excited when a case would come up, the only one who shared his same feelings. Sherlock sighed and left the room grabbing his coat.

John awoke two hours later to lunch by his bed. Not in the mood to eat he got up from the bed, finally able to walk, and made his way to the living room to see Sherlock sitting there again. John's heart began to race again and his vision blurred. Sherlock got up quickly and grabbed him by the arm. "John listen to me, just think. Keep your head clear. Remember when I told you about the mind palace? Go there, clear your mind now John." Through Sherlock's coaching John was able to calm down and his heart rate became normal, and his vision clear. "You were dead Sherlock." Was all he could say.

"No John, I was never dead. Only believed to be." Sherlock said calmly and quietly unsure of what could set the fragile man off. If John was scarred after war, it had only intensified at the detective's fake suicide. "I saw you jump." John's voice cracked although he tried his best to keep it together. Act like the soldier that he was…no is.

"Sherlock, why did you have to leave me?" His voice strained, trying not to falter. Sherlock sighed looking at his broken colleague, no, his broken friend. "If I didn't…If I didn't you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be dead. I may seem cold but I do have a heart." Sherlock said. The last words he had spoken to John were that he was a fraud, but John knew better. In all reality, Sherlock had wished that John would have figured out Sherlock's plan, but his mind was still ordinary.

"You…you couldn't even tell me? I could've kept your secret!" John yelled, like he had the day he first came to the flat. His leg was still a problem them. Sherlock shook his head. "An actor acts best when he does not know he is acting." He said looking at the shorter man's face. The face seemed to have battled through many tough, endless nights. A face that had cried for hours that seemed to never cease. Sherlock noticed that his laugh lines were dwindling. John had not laughed since Sherlock died that day.

"I'm sorry John, really I am." At that moment in time, Sherlock wanted to tell him it all. Why he had come back. Why he needed to be in the flat. Why he had to risk his life to save John's. Sherlock could have lived with Lestrade's death, or even Mrs. Hudson's death on his shoulders, but not John's. Sherlock, while in isolation from the world, realized that his need for John went much deeper than any normal friendship. He had come to love him over the years, but how could he tell him that now? When John was probably so repulsed by him.

What Sherlock didn't know that the reason John mourned, cried his self to sleep, nearly took his own life, was because he too loved the detective. John cleared his throat. "I just wish you could have told me, maybe then…maybe then I wouldn't have…" John had to stop speaking before he said something that he would regret later on down the road; something that he couldn't come back from. Sherlock was just about to speak as Mrs. Hudson came in with a large tea tray.

"I've made you both tea. You're probably both under some stress. Especially you Sherlock. I don't have a clue as to how you're going to make a comeback." She left with at those words and went downstairs. Sherlock grabbed John a cup and fixed it the way he liked then fixed his own.

"It's not like it was easy doing that John." Sherlock said sitting in his own chair now stirring his tea. Just as John was about to respond Lestrade burst into the flat.

"Boy's, we have a case."


	3. Shot From Above

**Me: Sorry It's not as long as the one before, but it's still pretty important. Hardly boring at all if you ask me.  
****Please Review Darlings!**

Sherlock nearly jumped at the thought. A case…already?

"Lestrade, is it really wise to get me involved so early? People will assume things, I'm actually trying to come back on a good note." After that one statement he got looks that told him it sounded like bullshit. "I want to come back on a good note so I can go back to being a dick." He said. Lestrade and John nodded.

"Well, the force already knows. I spoke to everyone, and for some reason Chief has had a change of heart, and you're allowed to work with us. Just as long as you don't screw it up." Lestrade finished with a smile. He was truly happy to see his dear friend back. After so long really thinking he was dead, although Mycroft had dropped subtle hints here and there. John looked at Sherlock.

"I only have one problem with this, what if Moriarty managed to survive? Wouldn't that put everyone in jeopardy by just putting you out into public again? I think we should go about this slowly." John looked at Sherlock, worried, yet happy to see the lively detective.

"I'll be fine John. I can get myself and anyone else out of a mess if the time comes." His arrogance showed with that one sentence. John just huffed. "Fine Sherlock, but just be sure of what you're doing."

Sherlock stood over a mangled body. 'Fallen off the building…no pushed. Marks on the back, leather.' He leans down to take a whiff. 'Black leather to be specific. Even more specific, leather from the tall men's store on Baker St. Eyes, red, puffy, clear signs of crying. Distraught? No…happy? Possibly.'

"Have you got any ideas?" Lestrade asked, and John just stood to the side watching intently as the detective worked his magic.

"Three." Was all he muttered before returning to the body. 'Wet jacket…it hasn't rained all day. Where did it last rain, this has been wet for under an hour, the body has been dead three hours. Hmmm odd.'

"Make that two." Sherlock stated and took a look at the woman's feet. Taking a small smell he understood. 'Beach. Killed there, brought to this building, her jacket replaced, pushed. But…why?'

"Lestrade, go to the closest beach you can find. You'll surely find a pair of shoes, and some sunglasses, probably green. And look for marks in the sand as if someone had been dragged. John, we need to go." Sherlock spoke quickly and looked around at the skies then back to John.

"John?" He looked at the army doctor worriedly. "Oh, huh?" He replied looking dumbfounded. 'As always.' Sherlock thought that to himself.

"We have to go, come on."

From the top of a building overshadowing the crime scene that Sherlock and John had just left, stood a six foot five inch man. Pale in the face, scruffy at the chin. With a camera, and a sniper rifle. The camera clicked one last time and he smiled. A smile covered his face, dark, yet happy. "Got you." He muttered before snatching up his gun and running off.

Sherlock and John arrived at their local Chinese restaurant, they both took a seat, where they used to sit before Sherlock left. At first it was rather painful for John, but the sense went away when the detective sat across from him.

"John, I wanted to come here, make sure you were alright. I know this must be extremely overwhelming." Sherlock worriedly stated. John hadn't eaten since he showed up the day before, and unlike Sherlock, John needed constant nutrition.

"I'm fine, really. It's just…it's so surreal having you back and there be nothing different, we hopped into our old lives, and the things is Sherlock." He choked up slightly. "It's not the same. I…don't feel. I don't feel the same way I used to." He finished. 'You big oaf just say it, you can tell Sherlock. He's not like your shrink.' He thought angrily in his mind. Sherlock looked at him in a knowing sense, he knew when John wasn't being fully truthful.

"Well John, I don't feel the same way I used to either, things changed. I…realized things I should have realized before. It was dreadful calling you, talking to you, telling you those things, because at one point, for a brief moment, I had begun to truly think I had made it all up. Then I heard you tell me that I'm not a fraud, and, I didn't cry on that building because my reputation was going to go up in flames, but because I had to hurt those I care most about." Sherlock finished. He was embarrassed, to show such a vulnerable side to someone so easily, but this was John. His best friend, his colleague, his secret love.

John nodded looking at him. It was near impossibly to say anything else. Sherlock had said it all right there. "I…Sherlock I want you to know. I couldn't say it before, it hurt too much, but I lo-"

John's words were cut short by the sound of a rifle shooting off, and before he could react properly, dodge, move a sixth of an inch, a bullet flew into his side from somewhere up above. All he could do was look at Sherlock with pained eyes. "John? John?" The voice of an angel began to fade as he slipped under.

The man stood at the top of the building, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He had hit the target he wanted, he never missed. It was a shot he missed so many years before. Only because he was told not to, the sign was given. And along with that sign, his love, his only thing, was taken away. What hurt most was that it was because of those two. Now he would take the only thing Sherlock had. Sebastian Moran turned, leaving the rifle, and walked away from the edge.


	4. MyFriend

**Sorry this one is kind of short. Didn't have much inspiration today.**

**I love you guys!**

Sherlock sat in the waiting room eager to hear news of John's condition. He had been at the hospital three days straight, no sleep, and no food. On some occasions he was allowed to see John. When he did he couldn't stay in the room for long seeing the tubes running out his nose and mouth.

The bullet had gone into his side and through a couple of rather important organs. The doctors had to cut him open to retrieve the bullet, leaving some cuts that would definitely scar. Some had come by to check on him, mostly Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They would both beg Sherlock to leave and get some rest, but every time he simply declined with a silent shake of his head, and would go back to staring blankly at the hospital T.V.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Dr. Yena." An Indian man approached him and Sherlock stood quickly. "Yes, how is he?" Managing to keep a professional edge to his voice he kept his eyes locked with the doctor's.

"We can release him today. He'll need to be on bed rest for the next three weeks. No running off to do cases or any of those sorts." The Doctor had a serious air to him and Sherlock just nodded. "I'll make sure that happens. Can I go see him?" Sherlock didn't care what the Doctor had just said, he needed to see John. With Sherlock, seeing was believing.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock coming into the room. He could finally talk since they removed the tube from his mouth and nose. "Sherlock." He said with a smile. It made him feel slightly better to his lo- no his friend.

Sherlock had to tighten his posture to keep from breaking down and sobbing over his companion. "You look awful." He said with a tortured laugh. The tubes that were down John's throat just a matter of hours ago now lay dispensed in a biohazard trash bin. Sherlock thanked whatever god there might be on this planet for that. "They told me you can come home today, but you have to be on bed rest for three weeks." Sherlock took a seat next to his bed.

Rolling his eyes John sighed, annoyed. "I keep telling them I'm fine. I've endured worse than this in a battlefield." He said referring to the bullet that was once lodged into his shoulder. He had to fight off many people with that wound and did just fine. The Doctors said that this one was a little more severe, that it had damaged several organs that they had to replace. John continued to look at them as if they were insane, but he complied with their wishes.

"Well, the sooner I can get to the flat the better. I hate hospitals." John said. His mind reverted back to when Sherlock had jump from St. Bart's. Sherlock looked at the pained expression on John's face, knowing what he was thinking. Instinctively Sherlock grabbed the army doctor's hand squeezing it tight. "You have no reason to hate them now. I didn't die." He said. In a way Sherlock knew that would be a little like rubbing salt in the wound.

John just looked at him seeing tears form in the corner of his eyes. "Sherlock…you...You're crying." He stated in disbelief. Sherlock looked up at him and wiped his eyes. "Allergies John." He said looking at him. Sherlock wished he could be truthful to John, his loyal blogger, but if he did things might change. Then again…hadn't they already?


End file.
